You Can Imagine the Birthday Dinners
by Dlvvanzor
Summary: Mycroft's lack of actual friends has lead to him invite John to his birthday dinner, which John discovers means spending several hours in a manor with the Holmes family. Maybe if Mr. Holmes would stop with the incredibly personal questions and Grandma Holmes' hands didn't wander quite so much, time would be going by a little faster... Crack, oneshot


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.**

**A/N: I'm feeling Sherlock crack. Hm, and maybe a sweet ending. :D**

* * *

"I never thought that Mycroft would ever invite _me_ to a family function."

Sherlock shrugged, gazing out the cab window, watching as London slowly faded into countryside. "Despite being the British Government, my brother doesn't really have any friends."

John snorted. "Since his method of introducing himself to new people is abduction and ominously threatening to worry about their flatmates, this doesn't surprise me."

"As such, he resorts to inviting _my_ friends to _his_ birthday party." Sherlock smirked, delighted. "And since my brother and mother share a birthday, it's something of a tradition to celebrate at the family estate."

"You have an _estate_?"

"Naturally. The Holmes' are quite well-off. How do you think I survived before you forced me to start accepting payment for cases? Especially with a cocaine habit to— look, John, that female jogger is purposely wearing inadequate breast support to attract the attention of men."

"Where?"

"Oh, she jogged away. Shame you missed her."

John sagged a little, then his echoic memory kicked in and he realized, "What was that about a cocaine habit?"

"Hm?"

"You said something about a cocaine habit."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock replied airily.

"You definitely did," John insisted.

"Really, John. I think I would remember having a cocaine habit," Sherlock dismissed him. "We have almost arrived. Now, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay?"

"Mycroft, Mummy, you, and I are not the only ones who will be in attendance."

"Why didn't you mention this sooner?"

"Is it really relevant? You would have come anyway, if I asked you to."

John grumbled but it was true.

"The other people in attendance," Sherlock continued, "will be Mycroft's assistant, whose name changes arbitrarily; my grandmother, who has a fit every time she hears the word 'mummy,' confusing the term of endearment with the preserved Egyptian ancients; my mother, who is absolutely charming; and my father, who does not understand boundaries."

"I'm sure they're lovely," John offered.

"I think you'll get on with my father, at the very least," Sherlock mused. "He was a military man."

John was about to respond, but the car had pulled up in front of the Holmes estate and John was rather sidetracked by the most shameless display of wealth he had ever encountered.

He didn't have long to gape, however, because soon his attention was diverted by Mrs. Hudson running out of the mansion at speeds John wasn't aware she could achieve.

"Sherlock, darling, welcome home!"

As soon as Sherlock was out of the car he was wrapped up in Mrs. Hudson's arms, almost being choked to death but looking fairly pleased about it, despite himself.

"Happy birthday, Mummy!"

John got out of the car as well and stared, trying to figure out how Mrs. Hudson had beaten them there and why Mycroft had invited her.

"And you must be John!" she said affectionately, releasing Sherlock and dancing over to John, taking his hand and shaking it warmly with both of hers. "So glad you could make it."

"John, this is my mother. Mummy, John."

"I've heard so much about you," she enthused, taking John by the hand and dragging him in the direction of the house. "Dinner is ready, hurry along! Sherlock is always late, but I'm sure you know that, John!"

"Traffic, Mummy," Sherlock defended himself mildly, trailing after them.

As he was being dragged, John shot Sherlock a significant look over his shoulder and indicated with his head. Sherlock sped up. When they were level, he asked quietly, "Yes?"

"Mrs. Hudson."

"What about her?"

"Mrs. Hudson is your mother?"

Sherlock frowned. "No, John, Mrs. Hudson is our landlady."

"Sherlock!" John snapped at a whisper, _still_ being dragged by the apparently oblivious mother/landlady, "This woman looks exactly like Mrs. Hudson!"

Sherlock cocked his head, squinting at his mother's back for a moment. "I don't see it," he confessed.

"You're the most observant man in the world and you don't see the similarities?" John demanded.

"That's because they look nothing alike!"

"Sherlock, I don't think I could distinguish between them in photographs."

"Why do you have a photograph of my mother?!"

"_Sherlo-_"

They were finally inside the immaculate house. It was gorgeous, but John didn't get to appreciate the view into England's Privileged because suddenly all he could see was Body.

"Hullo, there," he said to the entity that was wrapping its arms around him, squeezing him tight, rubbing his back. "You must be Mr. Holmes."

The man pulled back with a big grin on his face, hands sliding all the way down every inch of John's arms and to his hands to give them a firm shake. "Call me Dad, John."

"Um, sure, but... why?"

Mr. Holmes belted out a laugh. "Because you're my son-in-law, of course!"

"I am?"

"Now, dear, don't rush the poor man," Mrs. Hudson/Mummy said sweetly. "They're not officially married, yet. Give them time. We don't want to scare John off, do we?" She laughed.

Sherlock smiled.

John was horrified.

"We're not together!"

"I know what it's like, John," Mr. Holmes said conspiratorially, "I couldn't wait for the day I married Mrs. Holmes. I felt just as exasperated as you, always saying 'Why aren't we together yet?'"

"No, sir," John said as politely as he could, "I don't think you understand, we're actually not—"

He was cut off by an elbow that felt distinctly like Sherlock's introducing itself into his ribs.

"Ow!"

Mycroft's significant mass appeared through a doorway. He nodded politely at John who nodded curtly back. "Happy birthday, Mycroft," he said, trying to sound sincere.

"Thank you, John," he replied, ever aloof. "Good to see you, Sherlock."

Sherlock continued to gaze around the room, pretending he didn't see his older brother.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, concerned.

"Not to worry," Mycroft sighed. "He does this every year on my birthday. He _has_ done since he was six years old. When he walked around _in the nude with his hand on his willy_." He raised his voice on the last part, giving Sherlock a pointed look. "See? No matter what I say."

John nodded.

"That's a true story, by the way."

"I see," John replied reluctantly, unwilling to picture it. He set his sights on the much more-pleasant view of Anthea, or whatever her name was today, who was at Mycroft's shoulder but hadn't looked up from her phone once.

"Hello. Good to see you again."

"Mhm."

John could see, in the corner of his eye, that Mycroft was trying to get his brother's attention, stepping directly into his view, snorting sarcastically when Sherlock contorted to get him out of his line of sight.

John decided this wasn't his problem.

"Anthea?"

"Clara," she corrected.

"That's my sister-in-law's name," John said conversationally.

He got nothing more from her. He sighed.

"Come, come, sit and eat," Mr. Holmes said grandly, taking John's hand and interlacing their fingers, leading him to a chair and sitting him down. He stroked John's hair briefly before taking his own seat at the head of the table, to the right of his wife. Sherlock sat down to John's left, which made him feel a little better. To his right sat an old woman that John could only assume was Sherlock's grandmother. She looked at him and smiled. Across from John was Mycroft, with his assistant, and then a conspicuously blank spot that had a chair associated with it and a chessboard on the table space in front of it.

Sherlock's grandmother reached over and moved a chess piece.

"Let's say grace, everyone," Mr. Holmes said. John was surprised to hear those words come out of a Holmes' mouth, but he _wasn't_ surprised when the older man reached out and took the hands of the people on either side of him— his wife and Sherlock. He interlaced his fingers with them, as well, John was relieved to see.

Well, he was relieved until he saw Sherlock's hand coming at him from one side and the old woman's from the other. Apparently he was to be included in this tradition.

Defeated, he held hands with his flatmate and the random old lady, who lost no time in drawing a little pattern on the back of his hand with her thumb. In the shape of... was that a _pri_...

"Dear Lord!" Mr. Holmes said loudly, bowing his head and closing his eyes, making John jump. "We thank You for this food and for the family gathered around this table. Thank You for bringing Clara and John to Mycroft and Sherlock— they are a welcome addition to our family and we hope to get to know them better over the years to come. If it be Your will, bless them with many children. We also pray You bless Mycroft and Selena with good health on this day of their birth and on all days, and help us to always serve You. Amen."

"Amen," everyone echoed. John wanted to gape at Sherlock but he was pretty sure that, for the brothers, participation was from fear of their father's wrath, which John sensed could be quite... wrath...ful. They broke hands.

John leaned over to Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes started passing around a huge ham. "So, Clara and Mycroft are together, then?" he asked under his breath.

"No, no."

"Why does your family think they are? More importantly, why do they think _we're_ together?"

"They assumed both, and Mycroft and I allow them to believe it. It makes Mummy happy," Sherlock murmured back. "Look at her."

John risked a quick glance at Mrs. Hudson/Mummy, who was beaming at the way her son and John were leaning towards each other to talk.

"Besides, we might as _well_ be."

"What?!"

"We spend all our time together and you clearly are incapable of having a long-term relationship with a woman, hard as you may try."

John bit back a retort about how he could say the same for Sherlock minus the actually _trying_ part, deciding this wasn't the place to pick a fight.

"Just go along with it," Sherlock commanded, assuming he would obey (which, John knew, he would, always). "It does no one any harm. And to answer the question you had when you came in and saw the food on the table, you're correct, we have no servants despite the implications of this place. For some reason, we just can't seem to retain them for more than a mo-"

"So, John, I understand that you were in the military," Sherlock's father interrupted.

"Yes, sir," John said, relieved to be on a subject he could actually talk about, subconsciously sitting up a little straighter. "I have been told that you were, as well."

The other people at the table were relatively quiet as they served themselves and passed trays and bowls and plates, apparently listening intently.

Grandma Holmes moved another chess piece.

"What was it like to be homosexual in that situation, son?"

John choked on the sip of water he had been about to take.

"Was it difficult? I know that, in my time, those guys went through quite a bit of grief."

"Well, uh," John stuttered, "It wasn't much of an issues because I, well, I'm not-"

"Out of the closet? I understand." He nodded kindly. "Sherlock here has a way of bringing people right on out, doesn't he? Seem like no one can resist him, once he gets his claws in you. I remember when Sherlock was fifteen? A neighbor boy stood at his window and serenaded him until 2 in the morning, singing about how he had never felt this way about a boy before and about how he wanted to—"

"Yes, yes, poor boy, very much barking up the wrong tree, if you ask me," Sherlock said. Then he looked at John, wide-eyed, and batted his lashes. "I was waiting for John, after all, and I didn't even know it. Mummy-"

"MUMMIES!"

John jumped a mile straight into the air when the old woman next to him seemingly exploded. No one else seemed to notice. "NO! MUMMIES! SWARMING! THEY'LL KILL US ALL! RUN, ROBERT, RUN!" she shrieked. "THAT'S NOT JIMMY ANYMORE!"

"Grandma Holmes, it's okay, calm down," he soothed her in his best surgeon's voice, "There aren't any mummies-"

"MUMMIES! THE MUMMIES! THEY'RE BACK FROM THE DEAD! GET THE FIRE! TORCHES AND PITCHFORKS! BURN THEM ALL TO ASH!"

"-could you please pass the beans?" Sherlock continued without missing a beat.

"Oh, me too, please, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "When you're finished, please pass them to me."

Sherlock scooped some beans onto his plate, then held them up. "Does anyone else want the beans before I put them down?"

"Grandma Holmes, you're fine, you're okay," John assured her, petting her trembling back.

"Yes, please," Mycroft said.

"Anyone?"

"Sherlock!"

"Very well." Sherlock placed the serving bowl as far from Mycroft as he could.

"So nice you're not flinging food at each other this year," Mrs. Hudson/Mummy said cheerfully.

John rolled his eyes. Grandma Holmes seemed calmer, and she was looking at him with a wide, admiring gaze. He noticed her hand was now on his knee. When had that gotten there...?

Trying to ignore it, John passed the beans to Mycroft.

When Sherlock glared at him, eyes burning 'traitor,' John whispered, "You can't very well deny _him_ vegetables, can you?"

Sherlock smirked.

"So, Clara," Mrs. Hudson/Mummy said conversationally, politely chewing a forkful of ham. "I'm afraid I don't know a thing about you. Tell me about yourself. What do you like?"

Clara barely looked up from her phone. "Technology," she said shortly.

Mr. Holmes nodded sagely. "Robot sex. You have to be careful with things like that, you know. Kink can be dangerous. I remember when Mummy and I were first married..."

"MUMMIES! THE MUMMIES ARE COMING! SEE THE TRAIL OF DEATH THEY LEAVE BEHIND THEM!"

"Father, please, we do not have a kink," Mycroft sighed.

"THE CLOTH-BOUND FIENDS!"

"I bet _Clara_ knew she had to pretend to be someone's date when she came here," John grumbled to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson/Mummy addressed her husband lovingly, "This situation isn't like Wendy. Give poor Clara and Mycroft a break."

"Who was Wendy?" John asked, then instantly smacked his hand over his mouth. Grandma Holmes' hand was creeping up and he tried to shift away from it but failed.

"Suffice it to say," Mr. Holmes said solemnly, "she had the breath of a llama and a rather unhealthy attachment to my left thigh. It was very disturbing but somehow incredibly arousing."

"That's... interesting," John said, and took a huge bite of ham to avoid speaking for a moment.

"It was," Mr. Holmes agreed. "To this day, I can't see cucumber salad without getting an—"

"Damn you, you cheating bastard!" Grandma Holmes howled at the empty place next to her, flipping the chessboard off the table, pieces scattering everywhere and making a tremendous racket.

"Grandmother, please play nicely with Grandfather," Mycroft said disdainfully. "You know full-well he's always been better at chess than you. Just because he wins doesn't mean he's cheating."

"Grandmother," Sherlock said, as if Mycroft hadn't spoken, "Please play nicely with Grandfather. You know full-well he's always been better at chess than you. Just because he wins doesn't mean he's cheating."

Mycroft sighed, Clara/Anthea glanced up from her phone for a split second, Mrs. Holmes/ Mrs. Hudson cheerfully kicked an errant knight piece that had landed under the table near her foot, and Mr. Holmes found his baked potato absolutely fascinating, squeezing it slowly between two fingers, rolling it around on his palm.

The old lady's hand had officially creeped up to areas John would rather it not have been in.

To John's surprise, Sherlock was the one who spoke next. "Father, is Jasmine still alive?"

"She is, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes replied agreeably, spearing an impressive amount of green beans on his fork. "I promised we would tell you when she passes away, so you wouldn't have any nasty surprises."

"Who is Jasmine?" John dared to ask.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Holmes/Mrs. Hudson replied, scandalized. "You never told John about Jasmine?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It never came up."

"There she is," Grandma Holmes said, pointing.

An ancient, grey cat crawled into the room at speeds a snail could have easily lapped. Sherlock's face lit up and he flew over to it, hoisting it up and bringing it back to the table to show John.

"She's lovely," John said politely.

Jasmine purred and rubbed her face on John's arm. Cat fur floated in a tuft onto John's plate.

"Awww," Mrs. Holmes/Mrs. Hudson said. "She only ever does that to people who really love Sherlock. It's like she can tell you're meant for each other."

Sherlock continued petting the cat, unfazed, ignoring his dinner.

"When Sherlock was a child, he loved that cat a bit... _too_ much," Mycroft said, apparently not giving up on getting a rise out of Sherlock.

"When I was a child, this cat was my best friend and only company," Sherlock told everyone but Mycroft. How he managed this, John wasn't sure.

"You had a brother," Sherlock's brother pointed out.

"I had a brother, but I don't like him. _Jasmine_ understood me." He clutched the cat protectively, causing it to make a little choked sound of pain. John watched the cat, concerned. "She slept on my pillow every night. Sometimes she would curl up and sleep on my stomach," he added proudly.

"One time the cat had to stay overnight at the vet and Sherlock cried himself to sleep," Mycroft announced to anyone who cared.

"Shall we retire to the living room?" Mrs. Holmes/ Mrs. Hudson suggested cheerfully. "I've made coffee and cheesecake. Sherlock, you can bring Jasmine along, of course."

There was a general murmur of agreement and the scraping of chairs as people pushed back. Mr. Holmes assisted his elderly mother from her seat, using both hands and hoisting her up from under her bum. By the time John made it to the sitting room, the only seat open was between Sherlock and Grandma Holmes.

He sat, debating whether to get cozy with Sherlock and the cat to avoid the old woman's wandering hands or to sit closer to the old lady to avoid his 'husband-to-be.' In the end, he decided he'd rather be closer to his flatmate, who was far less likely to molest him. (Although it had happened once, for an experiment apparently. Needless to say, a very uncomfortable evening had followed when Sherlock had insisted on taking him out to dinner to correct the date/sex ratio he claimed he had unbalanced.)

"You can sit next to me any time," Grandma Holmes said in a low voice.

"Um... thank you."

"Photo albums!" Sherlock's father announced, jumping to his feet. "Selena! Get the cheesecake and the coffee! We must show Clara and John the past lives of the men they are having intercourse with!"

John put his face in his hand, mumbling something about getting a T-shirt that said 'not gay' and wearing it everywhere. Either ignoring this or just not hearing it, Mr. Holmes sat down at John's feet, leaning against his legs, and made Clara sit down on the floor next to him. He put an arm around her shoulder, which she didn't seem to notice, and she never looked up from her phone, which Mr. Holmes didn't seem to notice.

"Dear, you know that Sherlock is waiting for marriage," Mrs. Holmes/Mrs. Hudson chided him gently when she returned with an honestly delicious-looking cheesecake.

"And don't ever let anyone tell you that's wrong, son," Mr. Holmes said seriously to Sherlock. Then he grinned. "Although I bet John here would change just that one little thing about you if he could. Like Mycroft, I'm sure John has sown his wild oats! Isn't that right, Clara?"

Clara hummed.

Cheerfully opening up the old scrapbook Mr. Holmes produced seemingly from nowhere, he revealed the first page.

"This first one here is Mycroft when he was very little, two or three at the oldest."

John was obligated to look and instantly regretted it. He didn't want to see naked baby pictures of Mycroft. He _did not_ want to see _naked baby pictures of Mycroft. _Or, in fact, any pictures of Mycroft in any state of undress, at all. He wasn't even that excited about seeing him fully-clothed.

"He was fat even then," Sherlock said cheerfully. "If only he could be here."

Mr. Holmes turned the page. "Ah, and Sherlock."

...John also did not want to see naked baby pictures of Sherlock. He couldn't actually decide which was worse, though. At least, when it was Sherlock, it was nothing he hadn't already seen.

...Sherlock was right. They might as well be dating.

"He was skeletal even then," Mycroft said pointedly. "If only he could be less of an immature prat."

Sherlock ignored him entirely, pointing to the next photo. "I remember this photograph."

"Yes, that one was framed for a while," Mr. Holmes said fondly. "It's our wedding."

"And this one?" Anthea/Clara suddenly asked, pointing to the next page, startling John badly.

"Oh," Sherlock answered. "Mycroft used to dress up in Mummy's clothes."

"MUMMIES!" Grandma Holmes yelped. Even John ignored her this time.

"Mycroft in drag?" he asked instead.

"Sherlock used to do it, too," Mrs. Holmes/ Mrs. Hudson replied fondly.

Sherlock nodded. "I was better at it. The clothing I selected actually matched. And Mycroft was too fat to maneuver properly in the heels."

"Sherlock makes a lovely woman," Mycroft said loudly. Sherlock ignored him.

After what seemed like endless hours of pictures (and they only got more disturbing. As it turned out, pictures of Wendy did, in fact, exist, and Mr. Holmes hadn't been lying about her unhealthy attachment to his left thigh), it was finally time to go, and John couldn't have been more grateful. As they put on their coats they gathered by the door, Mrs. Holmes/ Mrs. Hudson engaging her sons in some topic of conversation or another while Mr. Holmes came up behind John and placed a hand on his lower back.

"John, can I talk to you for a moment?"

John sighed internally but he couldn't just ignore his father-in-law. ...His best friend's father.

"Yeah, sure."

Mr. Holmes moved the arm to John's shoulder and led him a small distance away from Sherlock, who watched curiously.

"Now, this may be too forward of me—"

"I assure you, Dad, nothing you could do would be forward for you."

"Well thank you, John. It's good to know that I can be myself with you. But I don't want to keep Sherlock waiting. I just have a few things I need to tell you."

John shifted uncomfortably. He was going to get the _if you hurt him I'll kill you _talk, wasn't he. Hadn't he gotten this enough from the fathers of people he was _actually _dating?

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you to know that I was joking tonight. I want you to take your time with him, propose when _you_ really want to, when you're both ready." He nodded, watching John's eyes to make sure he was following. "When you do, use this to get him a band that will suit him." He pressed a check into John's hand, and the doctor didn't dare look at how much it was made out for. "I know you're not a rich man, and I want this for him. He won't care, he probably doesn't even want one, but it's the only one my son is ever going to get— _you_ are the only one my son is ever going to get. No one has ever loved him like you do, and no one ever will again. You do know that, right?"

John opened his mouth to tell Mr. Holmes that he wasn't gay, wasn't in love with Sherlock, wasn't going to marry him, (_was _going to follow him to the ends of the Earth, but that was another story), and that the day he slept with Sherlock would be the day they were both too piss-ass drunk to know any better (and Sherlock almost never drank).

The peace in Mr. Holmes' eyes, though, made that impossible, and he released the breath slowly through his nose.

"Sir," John said slowly. "Your son means the world to me. I would literally kill for him... actually, I _have_ killed for him. That man is my entire world. I was completely alone when I met him, and sometimes we want to kill each other, but at the end of the day he'll always have me."

Mr. Holmes nodded, smiling. "Good. Good, John. Now go, don't keep him waiting."

Obediently, John proceeded to his flatmate's side and followed him out the door, waving goodbye to the exhausting assortment of people. It was dark outside, now. As John and Sherlock climbed into the cab and it drove away, John found himself able to start relaxing a bit. He also found Sherlock to be unusually chatty.

He smiled to himself and relaxed into his seat, allowing himself to tune out what the detective was saying and to instead just enjoy the few stars he could see (a novelty after living in London) and the peaceful rise and fall of Sherlock's voice when content, like he was now. The cab sped along smooth streets amongst only the occasional other car and almost no streetlights. The darkness inside and around the cab made the little scene, in John's mind, close and perfect, and his eyes slid shut.

Abruptly, Sherlock noticed that John hadn't said a word since they'd left. He looked at him and his head tilted.

"What's wrong, John?"

John looked at him for a moment and another smile found its way to his lips. He reached over and patted Sherlock's gloved hand where it rested on the seat.

"Nothing at all."


End file.
